"It's a wonder your father permitted your absence, my lady," Willas comments softly as Tyta leans towards him with a smile upon her lips, the aftermath of his earlier joke. "Roslin's presence I do understand better." Walder Frey is not at all fond of leaving the fourth of his daughters to her own device.

"I am to keep watch over my sister, my lord. She is young and impressionable." Tyta bats her eyelashes innocently at him, and they both laugh. "Besides that, I thought I might finally persuade you to ask me to a dance."

This easy friendship is not a new development. Willas remembers meeting Tyta when they were both children. Lord Frey's daughter is perhaps the one person of that brood with which he had had the pleasure of having a decent conversation. He is somewhat surprised to find that she is not yet some lordling's lady. Perhaps he should offer for her.

As soon as the thought comes, it is dismissed.

"I have heard that your father has plans to find you a suitable lord." His words seem to shock her, and those warm brown eyes glint for just a moment. "Don't look quite so distressed, my lady. People might think I have offended you."

Of all of Walder Frey's children she is the most devout. Yet her father does not permit her to retreat form the active life of Westeros to solitude and prayer. He had her betrothed to Brynden Tully once. Never mind that the man could have easily been her father. Fortunately the Blackfish would have none of it. Since then Tyta is most often called the Maid.

"Aye, but you know my position on this topic, Willas." If her tone is less than happy, her voice is low enough and her face pleasant enough for it not to be noticed.

The strains of a well known reel ring through the keep. Willas draws to his feet and extends a hand towards her. "Make haste, my lady. I fear our days of frolic and making merry will be soon past us."

Tyta does as he bids, and they take a turn around the floor. She is a good partner, yet not possessing the best skills. But he has taken her here to continue their conversation.

"Will you be going to Dorne soon?" It is common knowledge that the King and Queen will remove to Dorne , Lord Stark too. Most of the important houses, to be sure.

It is a game, Willas knows. Both he and Tyta have spent more than half their lives observing this precarious balance between the powers of Westeros. Words travel fast. "You are worried." His observation is met with a bland smile. "You needn't be. Doran Martell is not unwise."

"Doran Martell does not worry me," she replies shortly. She is not a player in this game, and perhaps for that reason her view is clearer. Willas knows that she does worry. "I worry for my friend."

Squeezing her hand, he allows himself a boyish smile. But her smile turns into a frown. He makes to look behind, wondering what has altered her disposition. Tyta shakes her head gently. "It seems our closeness has been wrongly interpreted." At that he looks anyway. Tully blue orbs stare at him, hurt reflecting in those twin pools. "Perhaps you should ask her for a dance."

"She is a child, Tyta," he says, turning back to her. His grip becomes firmer. Sansa Stark would do better to find a young man her own age to fawn over.

"You have waited until now. That excuse will not hold." Tyta raises her eyebrow at him as if her words have a hidden meaning. "Come, Willas. Do not hurt a maiden's tender feelings," she jokes, breaking from his grasp. "I am sure Rosling must be wanting me by now."

Willas is about to point out that her sister is dancing with Jon Targaryen and isn't likely to look well on her intruding, but Tyta is stubborn in her own way. He knows that she will not come back. Alas, she is taken by Jaime Lannister for the next dance. Well then, there is nothing for it but to gather his courage.

Not even on the field of battle during Robert's rebellion has he been this unsettled. Truth be told he was too young at that time to fully realise the danger. It took a field full of dead bodies to show him there is nothing glorious about war. Since then he has made the acquaintance of apprehension. Why he should feel so at the mere task of inviting a girl to dance is of yet unexplained. How daunting.

Sansa will not refuse. Of that he is certain. And for this he feels guilty. But it is just a dance. Surely she cannot have anything to suffer from it. In a few years she will find a man worthy of her, and she will forget these fancies of hers.

Walking towards her, he almost stops at the hopeful look in her eyes. Rickard Stark gives him a benevolent look, but his concentration is on the conversation he is having with Queen Lyanna. Willas wastes no time.

"My lady, may I have this dance?" he asks, his face a mask of joviality.

The girl breathes in, wonder clear in her features. But Sansa is quick to gather herself. She climbs to her feet and nods at him. Willas cannot help but admire her delicate frame. A tall girl, she will most likely take after her mother and become a tall woman. Most of Lord Eddard's children take after their Tully mother.

Her hand is smooth, her fingers slender. Sansa is elegant and poised. So very much like Margaery. Yet so very different at the same time. If she were more like his sister, Willas does not doubt he would find it easier to stay in her company. Margaery does not look at any man with such adoration as Sansa. Aye, she talks sweet when it is needed, she gives encouragement when she should and she flirts better than any of her brother, but Margaery's heart is nowhere in it.

With Sansa it is another thing altogether. For her a few smiles and a kiss in a darkened hallway won't be enough. She isn't offering Willas a mere flirtation. She would give him her heart if he would let her. And may the gods forgive him, if he could he would do the same.

His mind reminds him that she is a child. But to his heart it does not seem to matter. Hasn't Tyta said this excuse won't hold much longer?

So Willas allows himself a few moments of not thinking, of just being. He can enjoy a beautiful smile. He will enjoy this dance.

And Sansa laughs as he spins her around.